


You know it's a lie

by marysutherland



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-12
Updated: 2012-06-23
Packaged: 2017-11-07 14:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/432313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marysutherland/pseuds/marysutherland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU version of <i>The Reichenbach Fall</i>. Mycroft has made a terrible mistake and <i>someone's</i> going to have to pay for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by the amazing [Second Skin](http://2ndskin.livejournal.com/)

It wasn't the first death threat Mycroft had received. It wasn't even the first death threat he'd received from his brother. But it was one of the more disconcerting ones. He re-read the stark text message:

_Prepare yourself. You are going to die tomorrow. S_

He sighed and went off to lock himself in the disabled toilet – anti-social, of course, but he couldn't risk being overheard at the reception he was attending – and dialled his brother's number.

"Good evening, Mycroft. Got bored with starting wars and moved onto character assassination, have you?" Sherlock's voice was sardonic as ever, but Mycroft's experienced ear could hear the tension behind it. Sherlock was looking for a fight, wasn't he?

"I take it this is about the forthcoming _exposé_ by the _Sun_ ," he replied. "I'm sorry about that, but it's a storm in a teacup. Once you've been given a hero's reception for solving the Bruhl case – and, doubtless, an inappropriate gift as a reward – Ms Riley is going to be the one looking for alternative employment."

"Oh, you're slipping, aren't you, Mycroft?" Suddenly there was not just the normal animosity, but fury. "Haven't you read the latest reports from your spies?"

"I've been talking to several Russian oligarchs for the last three hours," Mycroft replied, as calmly as he could. "It is a miracle that I am still almost sober. What have you done?"

"Parted company with the Metropolitan Police."

"Can't Greg sort that out?" He winced at the slip of the tongue that revealed how he thought of the inspector, but Sherlock didn't seem to notice.

"The last time I saw Lestrade, I was pointing a gun at him. Well, not at him in particular, but in the general direction of a number of policemen. I don't know why they sent armed officers to arrest me."

Mycroft could feel himself start to sweat. "What _on earth_ have you done?"

"Become a fugitive from justice, just as Moriarty wanted. But don't worry, nobody's dead, so far."

"Whatever the charges are, I'll make sure they get dropped," Mycroft said hastily. "But I may not be able to arrange that till tomorrow."

"You still think there's going to be a tomorrow for you?" Sherlock demanded, "Wrong again, Mycroft."

Had Sherlock taken something? Was he having a nervous breakdown?

"What are you talking about, Sherlock?" he replied, trying to sound helpful, soothing. "I know you have every right to be annoyed about the newspaper story, but Rich Brook's allegations against you cannot possibly stand up–" He broke off, because Sherlock was _laughing_ now. A raucous sound that had nothing of humour in it.

"You haven't seen it, have you?" Sherlock said. "You thought you _knew_ what Kitty Riley was going to say and so you didn't bother reading it. You left it to your underlings to deal with the grubby details, didn't you, and so you missed the punch line."

"Which is?" Mycroft said, his mouth suddenly dry.

"It's not just me she's bringing down, it's you. I'll send you the article." The line went dead.

Twenty seconds later an e-mail appeared. Mycroft fumbled to open it – he was awkward with a mobile at the best of times – and started to read the attachment. SHERLOCK: THE SHOCKING TRUTH the headline proclaimed, beside a picture of Sherlock in _that_ hat, and a smaller inset photo of "Rich Brook".

And then a third photo caught his eye; his own. A barely recognisable image from a few years ago, when he'd been snapped as part of a trade delegation to Brazil. He hadn't realised there were still copies of that photo around. Far more alarming, though, was the caption beneath:  "Mycroft Holmes – the most dangerous man Rich Brook ever met". He could feel his grip tighten on the phone. _Concentrate. Read this through._

He couldn't see the danger at first. A few snide remarks about Sherlock's privileged background, and then a couple of paragraphs of the tittle-tattle he'd rashly let Moriarty know about Sherlock's early life. Including the inevitable references to Sherlock's years of drug use. 

_"Sherlock Holmes always wanted thrills. As a teenager he angered the police with repeated claims to have solved notorious crimes.  At Oxford, he made enemies prying into other students' personal lives. He had a brilliant future as a chemist. Then he found a new set of chemicals to explore."_

If necessary, Mycroft had several signed statements discussing Ms Riley's own history of taking illegal substances. He'd prefer not to have to resort to that kind of tit-for-tat, however, and he still didn't see where he – or Brook – came in.

But almost immediately, as he scrolled down, there was the key paragraph:

_"Soon afterwards, Sherlock Holmes' elder brother Mycroft made a fateful decision. Mycroft, a senior figure in the Secret Service, was desperate for his brother to give up drugs. So he encouraged Sherlock's wish to be a detective by faking crimes for him to solve."_

The story went on to claim that a _"sinister conspiracy"_ developed. _"Between them the Holmes brothers set up and 'solved' dozens of cases. Mycroft used his contacts among the world's intelligence services while Sherlock turned to his friends in the drug-fuelled underworld."_

The point, Mycroft reminded himself, was that almost nobody knew about Sherlock's early cases, so wildly inaccurate claims about them could be made to sound vaguely plausible. And then there were the inevitable snide paragraph about how John Watson – _"Sherlock's new and constant companion"_ – had turned Sherlock into an internet phenomenon.

_Where's the actual evidence_ , Mycroft thought, even as he knew that wasn't the purpose of the article. Then he saw the start of it, the anchor points of truth onto which the web of lies could be attached. Irene Adler and Baskerville. He hadn't been the only one who'd talked too much, had he?

_"But the publicity fuelled Sherlock's instability. His 'investigations' into a royal sex scandal led to information on MI5's operations being leaked to a deadly terrorist organisation.  In Devon, he was allowed access to a top-secret MoD site. A day later a senior scientist there, Dr Robert Frankland (63) died in suspicious circumstances._

_"Mycroft, desperate to boost Sherlock's reputation, came up with his most daring plan. He would create a master criminal for Sherlock to bring to justice. The man would walk free after stealing the Crown Jewels, but Sherlock would finally bring him down. Mycroft had the government contacts to set up the scam. All the brothers needed now was their very own criminal mastermind: Jim Moriarty."_

The next section was familiar territory: there was no Moriarty, only the harmless, if rather naive "Richard Brook". It was proving oddly hard to crack that cover story; Mycroft's team had been hard at work on it ever since he'd realised Brook's real identity, but they still didn't have anything tangible.

Mycroft stopped reading and checked his watch. He had at most a couple more minutes before his absence from the reception would be commented on. Was there anything here that would really mean his downfall, or had Sherlock been exaggerating? And then he saw it.

Brook claimed he had decided to back out of the project. _" 'I got scared about Sherlock, I didn't know what he might do. But I was worrying about the wrong brother. It was Mycroft Holmes who was the danger. The most dangerous man I've ever met. When I told him I wanted out, he just smiled at me. One day later, I was imprisoned in a cell. I didn't know where I was. I didn't know if I was going to get out of it alive.' "_

Somehow, something had leaked about that. Unnamed but surprisingly accurate sources for Moriarty's time in Mycroft's custody, unsubtle hints about torture, a man driven to the edge of insanity. The innocent, terrified Richard Brook, who had done exactly what Mycroft wanted after that and then run for help.

_" 'Honesty is my only protection,' Rich insisted to me. 'The people of Britain need to know what's happening. The men who are supposed to protect them are playing their own deadly games.' "_

Mycroft switched off the phone, because he didn't need to read any more. And then he went back to the reception and excused himself.  A crisis at the Home Office. One or two of his colleagues were looking at him strangely, but tomorrow they'd be his ex-colleagues, so it hardly mattered.

***

He phoned Sherlock again when he was seated in his official car – _have to get used to public transport again soon, won't I?_ – and asked:

"Where are you and what do you need me to do?"

"I need you to _die_ , brother."

"Very funny. But I think it's more than past time we started co-operating. I am truly sorry about the article, Sherlock; I seriously underestimated Moriarty. I will hand in my resignation tomorrow, obviously, but as it's the weekend, I may still have access to some government facilities till Monday, if they're of any use to you. Civil service inertia can occasionally come in handy."

"You don't get it, Mycroft, do you? You still don't get it."

Mycroft buried his head in his hands. Forced his frustration down, the urge to scream at his brother. Counted to ten, and then sat up again and said:

"What am I missing, Sherlock? We are both going to be disgraced, though if I resign immediately, the Crown may choose not to prosecute me. Your career has been destroyed and you can't hope to win a libel action against Ms Riley. I can't appear as a witness for you, you see; I owe that much to the Service."

"It's not enough for Moriarty. That was never the plan."

"What more can he do?"

"Nothing to you. He reckons he's broken you, Mycroft, that you're no good without your fancy office and your security cameras. But Moriarty knows it would take more than that to stop _me_."

Mycroft stared out of the car window – ten minutes, at least to the office, given the current traffic – and didn't bother replying. It always came down to this. Sherlock's urge to prove he was cleverer than him had led them into disasters so many times. But was he any better? Hadn't he almost envied Moriarty's interest in Sherlock? Been happy to point out Sherlock's faults, subconsciously wanted to prove his own superiority to his brother? And ended by destroying them both.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock's voice in his ear, demanding as ever. Sherlock wanted nothing from Mycroft, so he always claimed, apart from the times he wanted everything. "Don't just sit there on your fat arse: listen to me! Moriarty can't afford to leave me alive, because I can prove who he really is. Somewhere out there is the evidence and I will find it. The only way Moriarty can be sure of stopping me is killing me, he knows that."

"If he wanted to kill you, he could have done so long ago." Mycroft's voice was calm again. It seemed so abstract now, something he could cope with discussing. Not the dead weight of real life.

"Not like this. If I'm murdered, I'm a hero again. Moriarty is going to kill me and make it look like suicide. If I'm dead and you're disgraced, there's no stopping him."

"And how do you propose to prevent that?"

"By giving him an alternative. You dead and me suspected of killing you."

Mycroft straightened himself from the stupor he'd slumped into. "I can see how that might benefit you, but I hardly see the advantage to myself," he replied, as haughtily as he could.

"I _meant_ ," Sherlock said with irritation, "faking your death. Then you can go off to America, use your CIA contacts there – they still trust you. You find proof of Moriarty's true identity while he's busy chasing my shadow."

It made sense. It made more sense than anything Mycroft had heard in the last few hours. But surely...

"Wouldn't it be better if you died too?" he said.

"That was my original plan, but I can't do it to John. Have him think I've committed suicide."

"Whereas he'll be quite happy believing that you're a murderer?"

"That I've murdered you? Right now, he might be rather unconcerned about that, after what you told Moriarty. Besides, there's only one suitable corpse and it looks slightly more like you. Well, the key point is that it has masses of fillings, because the deceased obviously couldn't resist sugary snacks. Sound familiar, Mycroft?"

He'd said co-operate, he was going to co-operate. So time to ignore Sherlock's childish taunts, even as he couldn't help wincing at the oblique reference to dentists. Concentrate.

"How am I going to die?"

"Jump off a roof. Your face will be smashed in and any height difference won't be spotted. We can fix the DNA samples as well."

"This is starting to sound remarkably like the death of the late Irene Adler, isn't it?" Mycroft said with sudden realisation.

"Which one?" Sherlock said. _Oh, so he did know more about events in Pakistan then he'd let on,_ Mycroft thought. Still that was a matter for a later conversation.

"What do you need me to do?" he asked instead. The practical side of faking deaths was something he'd always left to others.

"Stay out of circulation for the moment, just in case the Security Service decide to have you arrested. I'll call you when I've got things set up."

***

Mycroft went to the Diogenes Club: no-one had tried to arrest anyone there since 1956. Unfortunately, he wasn't the only person who had worked out that might be a safe haven. John Watson was waiting for him in the back room, angrily flicking through a sheaf of papers.

"She has _really_ done her homework, Miss Riley," John announced as he came in. "Things that only someone close to Sherlock could know."

Mycroft closed the door hastily. Best to say as little as possible, till he was sure how much John knew. Especially since John hadn't finished his rant:

"Have you _seen_ your brother’s address book lately? Two names: yours and mine, and Moriarty didn’t get this stuff from me. So how does it work, then, your relationship? Do you go out for a coffee now and then, you and Jim?"

Mycroft sat down silently, clutching his umbrella. Unlikely that John would attack him, but best to be on the safe side.

"Your own _brother_ ," John went on, waving the sheets of paper, "and you blabbed about his entire life to this maniac."

"I never intended... I never dreamt ..." Mycroft began, floundering through the thickets of the unsayable.

"This is why you brought me here last time, isn't it? Because you'd made this mistake and you knew it was going to mean trouble for Sherlock." He paused and Mycroft could see the effort it took for him to restrain himself. And then John asked:

"Why were you talking to Moriarty, anyhow?"

Time to let him know a little of the truth about that, at least, Mycroft decided.

"We'd watched him for a long time, thought he was just another one of the dabblers in the world of espionage. Till we finally realised that James Moriarty was the most dangerous criminal mind the world has ever seen. And that he had in his pocket the ultimate weapon: a key code. A few lines of computer code that could unlock _any_ door."

"So you abducted him to try and find the key code?" John's manner was matter of fact now. He'd read the article and he was a man who understood about playing dirty.

"We interrogated him for weeks," he replied, "but it was no good. He just sat there, staring into the darkness." Mycroft could still hear the slap of the interrogator's palm against Moriarty's face, as he had sat and watched him. He'd told the Americans at the start that torture wouldn't work on the man, but they'd taken some convincing that his methods would be more effective.

"The only thing that made him open up was me," he went on, as calmly as he could. " _I_ could get him to talk, just a little, but ..." He couldn't go on.

"In return you had to offer him Sherlock’s life story," John said, with the precise, quiet anger of a man who didn't need bluster to be dangerous. "You sold your brother to Moriarty, and didn't realise you were selling yourself as well. People _will_ swallow the big lie about Sherlock being a fraud, because so much of the rest of it’s true. Like you being a scheming, untrustworthy bastard."

John leant forward in his chair. "Moriarty wanted Sherlock destroyed, right? And _you_ gave him the perfect ammunition to finish you both off." He gave a half smile and got up, heading for the door.

 Time for the final manipulation, Mycroft thought, and he looked up at John and said, softly: "John, I'm sorry." And as John turned back for a moment, he added."Tell him, would you?"

He waited for five minutes after John had left before texting Sherlock:

_John's just left the Diogenes Club. I'll need to keep out of his way, but he's safer with you. M._

The reply came almost immediately: _I'll phone you tomorrow morning. If you haven't made a will, I suggest you do so. S_

  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is about to fake Mycroft's death. At least if everything goes to plan.

What Sherlock meant by tomorrow morning, Mycroft realised, as he stared blearily at his watch, was 4.30 am. It was barely dawn yet. But the text was clear.

_Get a taxi to Barts immediately. Text me when you get to the Queen Elizabeth II House entrance. S_

He was going to his death in yesterday's shirt and without time for a shave. It didn't inspire his spirit. Still, he had to go through with this. He had no better plan. He just hoped Sherlock knew what he was doing. He was relying on him – and there was a truly terrifying thought.

It took Mycroft a frustratingly long while to find a taxi, and when he finally got to Barts, Sherlock looked calm and immaculate, which didn't help his mood. Nor did being dragged hastily into an insalubrious Gents.

"John's asleep in one of the labs," Sherlock announced, leaning against a graffiti-covered wall. "He won't be stirring any time soon. I've arranged to meet Moriarty up on the roof in a couple of hours from now. Except you're going to meet him instead of me. I've got the key code; you can tell him that."

"Where is it?" Mycroft demanded eagerly.

"In my head. In Moriarty's as well, which is the problem. Encoded as a binary sequence; he tapped out the rhythm when he came to visit me."

"If you can transcribe it–"

"I have already, and I've sent copies off to Anthea and Lestrade as backup. But it'll take detailed analysis to see exactly how the code works. And we also have to assume that Moriarty has a backup plan. A threat to make me – or now you – commit suicide. I think we have to presume that you're still going to die." He announced the last statement with relish.

"That was why you chose the roof as a meeting place, was it?" Mycroft said. He could feel his heart racing already at the thought of it. "How...what do I have to do?"

"It should be straightforward enough. We place a lorry below, provided with a box rig. It'll break your fall very effectively. So you fall onto that. Meanwhile, your substitute is dropped from a near-by window onto a pavement."

"And if I miss the _rig_?"

"You don't. You fall forward and it will be there. I've got friends who know about these things."

"I wish it was them doing this." He hoped he didn't sound as sick from fear as he felt.

"Or even me." Sherlock smiled alarmingly for a moment and then his face grew serious. "But it's fall or be pushed, Mycroft, you're no safer if you go back out on those streets. How long would you last if you didn't have MI5 at your back?"

"A few months," he said, reluctantly. "I've made a lot of enemies. Mutually assured assassination has protected me, but once I'm disgraced..."

"You've got a target stuck on your head. It's better to go like this, Mycroft. If you make a mistake this time, you won't live to regret it." The edge of mockery from last night was back in Sherlock's voice again, and a wave of simple terror swept through Mycroft. He forced his knees not to buckle, and blurted out:

"Do you _want_ me to die?"

Sherlock's smile returned, broadened.  "No. I want to be the one who ensures that you live. Can't call me a disappointment after that, can you?"

They had to stop Moriarty, Mycroft told himself. Nothing else mattered. _Concentrate on the plan_.

 "What the next step?" he asked. "I'd prefer not to have meet John again. He might start suspecting something if he sees us together."

"He's worn out," Sherlock said. "We had...a busy time yesterday."

"You nearly got yourself both killed, running in front of a bus like that."

"Oh, you have read yesterday's reports now?" Sherlock said. "Well, don't worry about the fallout from that; it's not your problem any more. I'm going to take you up to the roof and show you where to position yourself for the fall. But before that I'll need your clothes."

"I...I am not jumping naked," Mycroft said, his chin going up.

"Of course not. Why would you think I'd suggest that?" Sherlock replied, shuddering slightly. "But I need to dress the corpse to match you, and you would decide to wear a light grey suit, wouldn't you? Whereas the deceased has a white shirt, no jacket and nasty black polyester trousers. Let me see" – he scrutinised Mycroft carefully – "You can keep your underwear and your shoes; you have bigger feet than him. Give everything else to me, including your wallet and your phone. No, on second thoughts keep your phone, I may need to contact you while you're on the roof."

"You can't," Mycroft said hastily, as he started to undress. "If this is going to work, if Moriarty is going to accept me turning up instead of you, we can't let him know that you're in on the plan. It has to seem like me protecting you. So you can't give me instructions as we go along." He stared hard at Sherlock as he added: "I'm not reading out your lines to Moriarty."

Sherlock frowned for a moment, and then nodded. "Keep your phone, anyhow. I want you to be able to call for help if you have to. I'll be back with your new clothes shortly." He folded up Mycroft's clothes carefully and then left. Mycroft locked himself into a cubicle and stood shivering.  Well, at least if this was all an elaborate practical joke by Sherlock to humiliate him, he could, indeed, send for help.

He sat on the toilet seat and tried to breathe deeply. Probably not a good idea in a place like this, but he had to calm down, make his mind start functioning again. See if there were flaws in Sherlock's plan. The problem was that the Kitty Riley fiasco had dented his confidence. Could there be something else he was overlooking? Probably, but Sherlock was right that Moriarty would love the idea of framing Sherlock for his own brother's murder.

And here was Sherlock again, banging on the cubicle door, with a nondescript shirt and a pair of trousers, which were indeed horrible, but fortunately not too tight. Quite black, though.

"Isn't someone going to notice that I started the jump with black trousers and finished them with grey?" he asked.

"Rather than brown, you mean?" Sherlock said. _I could do without that kind of crudity, thank you_ , Mycroft thought, staring down at his nose at his brother. But Sherlock just went on cheerfully: "I'll find you a coat of some kind, and I don't think anyone will notice. Especially since there'll be a fair amount of blood around."

***

"You didn't tell me you had acrophobia," Sherlock announced, as Mycroft stood on the parapet of the roof and sweated.

"I don't," he said. "That is an _abnormal_ fear of heights. Feeling scared about this drop is only sensible."

"If you're not going to be able to do this–," Sherlock began.

"I am," he said. "As you pointed out earlier, there is nothing left for me if I don't." All the complications of his life, suddenly narrowed down to fifty feet of air.

"We'd better go back down," Sherlock said. "Your meeting's at seven thirty. I need to get John out of the way and check all the other arrangements are made."

Mycroft followed him, walking slowly down the roof access stairs to the safety of the building below, miserably conscious of his unsteady legs.  Sherlock stood there, scrutinising him through narrowed eyes, and suddenly announced: "You were shivering up there and you need a coat anyhow. Wear mine. If you button it up it'll hide the rest of your clothes."

He took his coat off and handed it to Mycroft. And sure enough, it did fit, if a trifle snugly. Mycroft waited for the usual jibes about his weight.

"Look after it," Sherlock said. "There's some money in the pocket and there's a cafe on the third floor, where you can get some coffee. Horrible stuff, but I want you seen at Barts."

"Where will you be when the meeting's happening?" Mycroft asked.

"Don't worry about that," Sherlock replied. "But put your phone to vibrate, and I'll give you a call if I spot any outside interference. Good luck." He strode away.

***

Mycroft found the cafe and got himself a black coffee. There were Danish pastries on sale as well, but he didn't feel tempted, as he usually did. Fear made a good appetite suppressant, didn't it? He reached down for his pocket watch, and realised he no longer had it. Pulled out his phone instead and checked the time on that. Quarter of an hour to go. Twenty minutes to live, perhaps.

Now he'd seen the drop, he was fatalistic. He probably wasn't going to survive, but he could, at least, perhaps take Moriarty with him. Or if not, hope that Sherlock could block off Moriarty's escape from the roof. Because Mr Richard Brook would have rather a lot of explaining to do, wouldn't he, if found up on a roof from which a man had just fallen to his death?

Mycroft sighed. It couldn't possibly be as simple as that. Moriarty had outplayed him again and again. There would be another complication, there always was.

His phone started to vibrate as a text arrived.

_He's up on the roof. The rig's ready. Catch you later. S_

He couldn't think of anything to say in reply that Sherlock wouldn't sneer at. And now was not the time for sentiment, but for action. He got up, put his polystyrene cup in the appropriate recycling bin, and went up to the roof.

***

Moriarty was back to the smart-suited joker, sitting on the parapet with some stupid pop song playing on his mobile, staring at nothing. The way he'd stared in his cell, before he'd scrawled "Sherlock" across every surface. And then he opened his mouth and announced:

"Here we are at last – you and me, Sherlock, and our problem – the final problem. Stayin’ alive! It’s so _boring_ , isn’t it?"

"Some of us are quite content with boring," Mycroft replied, and Moriarty switched off the music, as if he'd suddenly registered him as more than a tall shape in Sherlock's coat.

"Big Brother to the rescue?" Moriarty said, laughing. "Oh, this is more fun. Sherly came running to you for help, did he, even though you were the one who stitched him up? It's so touching. _My_ brother's an army officer and he's no help at all to me."

"Sherlock doesn't know I'm here," Mycroft replied, and it came out more coolly than expected. He was used to verbal duels, after all. "Or indeed that you are. Despite what his texts may have suggested."

"Hijacking his phone messages? Neat. So what have you done with him, Mycroft?"

"He's investigating Battersea Power Station, where _you_ summoned him. Allegedly. I'll let him know when I've finished with you."

"You're such a little team now!" Moriarty announced, and then his head went down for a moment, as if he'd lost interest. Mycroft stood in silence and watched him, wishing he had his umbrella to play with. Wait and see what came next, see if his silence could somehow disconcert Moriarty. But when Moriarty spoke again, he simply sounded despairing.

"All my life I’ve been searching for distractions. You two were the best distraction and now I don’t even have _you_. Because I’ve beaten you both. And you know what? In the end it was easy."

Mycroft put his hands behind him, tapping out beats and waited for the madman to go on.

"It was easy. Now I’ve got to go back to playing with the ordinary people. And it turns out _you’re_ ordinary, just like all of them," Moriarty said, standing up, starting to walk around Mycroft. Time to respond now.

"As ordinary as Rich Brook? A pure coincidence, doubtless, that the name's a translation of Reichenbach, the case that made my brother's name." He'd worked it out last night, far, far too late.

"Just trying to have some fun," Moriarty drawled in reply, "You got the joke, but not soon enough. Just like you simply haven't got rhythm. You're not doing that thing with the fingers right."

"You tapped out your message when you went to visit Sherlock," Mycroft replied. "The binary code version of the computer key. You hid it in Sherlock's memory and then you set your assassins on him."

"I told all my clients: last one to Sherlock is a sissy."

How did you fight someone like this? _Keep him talking_ , Mycroft told himself, _and maybe I'll spot a weakness. He'll open up to me again, I'm sure of it._

"But the secret wasn't just hidden in Sherlock's mind," he announced, coolly. "You didn't think you were the only one bugging 221B, did you? I don't need to memorise the computer code or understand it. I have people I employ to do that sort of thing for me. And now we have it, we simply alter reality again, reverse your little manoeuvre. Farewell Rich Brook, hello again, Jim. No, in fact, we probably don't need to bother with the second part. A man locked in Guantanamo Bay for life doesn't need a name, after all. You've lost your immunity, I'm afraid, Mr Moriarty."

For a moment Moriarty was staring at him, the way he'd done in the cell, and then he turned away, and muttered:

"No, no, no, this is too easy."

And then suddenly, he turned back, screaming: "There is no key, _doofus_!" And stretched his hands out and added quietly. "Those digits are meaningless, utterly meaningless. You don't know anything about anything, do you, Mycroft? You thought you'd spotted something that your brother had missed. But you're even more ordinary than Sherlock."

"The rhythm–" Mycroft began. Had Sherlock somehow been wrong about that? Securing the computer code was the absolute priority; maybe he should abort the whole mission...

"Johann Sebastian Bach's Partita number one," Moriarty announced. "Do you know why I didn't tell you the key code, Mycroft, when you were beating me up? Because there's no such thing. I'm disappointed in you – and Sherlock too – for believing there is." He was yelling again. "I broke into the Bank, the Tower, the Prison, with nothing more than a few willing participants."

Mycroft should have thought of that, of course. All these systems were only as strong as their weakest links, the pairs of eyes and hands watching over all the fancy locks and cameras.

"Bribery," he said, and he could feel his body slumping. "Security guards, prison wardens, junior bank staff, they're all relatively badly paid, aren't they? What wouldn't they be willing to do for a few thousand pounds, if there's no real harm done?"

"Too ordinary, isn't it? You both always want everything to be clever. That's why you're so easy to fool. Now, shall we finish the game?" Moriarty said as he headed towards the edge of the roof. "One final act. Though it _was_ supposed to be Sherlock who took the leading role."

"What do you mean?" Mycroft said, and he didn't need to fake the tension in his voice. Sherlock had been right about this, at least. And then, as if it had only just occurred to him, he forced himself to look at Moriarty, and said, in a choked voice: "Sherlock was supposed to commit suicide, wasn't he?" He walked slowly towards the parapet.

" 'Genius detective proved to be a fraud.' I read it in the paper, so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairytales," Moriarty was in full flight now, almost deliriously happy. "But I'll tell you another story, an even older one, they told me when I was a kid at school. About two brothers. One day one of them got very angry with the other one, because people liked him more, and he took him out into the fields on his own and then he killed him. Only I thought it was Sherlock going to be the sacrificial lamb, not you."

Mycroft looked down cautiously over the edge. He could see the mark of where he had to jump, a reminder that Sherlock had anticipated all of this. Most of this, rather. They'd been wrong to think Sherlock's suicide was ever going to be enough for Moriarty. Not even Sherlock's suicide and his brother's disgrace would be enough. Right from the start, Moriarty had wanted Mycroft in a cell too. Make the punishment fit the crime. _Would people believe I could harm Sherlock, kill him? Do I seem so ruthless to them?_ But the man in the _Sun_ article certainly would. The puppet-master behind Sherlock the fraud, who'd then turned on his own creation, tried to destroy the evidence.

That didn't matter, because there was a new plan now, in which he jumped instead. But would Moriarty allow that? He looked across at the other man, who now stared sullenly back at him. _Don't throw_ me _into the briar patch, Brer Fox._ Moriarty's nickname for him was "The Iceman", was it? Time to pretend there was ice-water in his veins, not blood.

He stepped away from the parapet, and said, as calmly as he could. "I don't fancy being Abel myself. Heroic self-sacrifice is rather above my pay grade.  So what I suggest is that I phone Sherlock, tell him that while he's been wasting his time running round handcuffed to Dr Watson, I've struck a deal with you. I'm sure he'll want to stick his nose in, see exactly what I'm offering you. Unfortunate when he finds out it's him."

"Oh my," Moriarty replied, smiling. "You're really something, aren't you? All this high-minded government service lark and then you'll sell out your own brother. Not once, but _twice_. But you know what? That would be _boring_.  I think you should just kill yourself. It’s a lot less effort. Go on, just for me. _Please_?"

"You're insane!" Mycroft snapped in his haughtiest manner. The seed was there in Moriarty's mind now, but he was so changeable, he couldn't be sure it would stay.

"You're just getting that now?" Moriarty's voice became conversational, but there was still something terrifying in those brown eyes. Whatever Moriarty's original plan, only one of them was going to walk away from this rooftop, Mycroft felt sure of it. _But he's smaller than me, maybe I could push him over the edge? Literally, not just figuratively._

He wasn't sure he was strong enough, skilful enough to be able to do that. Not when he felt sick every time he got too near the edge of the roof. If it had been Sherlock, he would have been able to do that to Moriarty. He knew how to fight, even if Mycroft didn't.

But Moriarty had expected Sherlock to meet him, so there must be something more than that, something that meant it didn't reduce to a simple physical struggle. There was another trap, of course; nothing for it, but to spring it.

"You may be insane, but I'm not," he said, folding his arms, "If there's no key code, and therefore nothing to do a deal about, then I suggest that concludes today's agenda. I feel a Caribbean holiday calling me. A very long holiday. Good job I know where all MI5's bodies are buried."

"Oh, I think you should add yourself to their number," Moriarty said casually. "Or other people will die."

"You can chase after Sherlock if you want to," Mycroft said, and managed to smile. "You and he are such pals, aren't you? You'll be the death of him yet."

"If you don't die, it's not his grave you'll be standing by. It his friends' graves."

"You're threatening John Watson's life again, are you? Now it's you being boring." Was the tone of indifference right? What would an iceman do faced with threats to others?

"Not just John. Everyone."

The next name was inevitable.

"Mrs Hudson," Mycroft said.

"Everyone," Moriarty replied, and his smile was enormous now.

Who else would Sherlock be prepared to sacrifice himself for? And why did Moriarty think it was this name that would be the clincher for _him_? And then he saw it.

"Gregory Lestrade," he croaked, his stomach knotting.

"Three bullets; three gunmen; three victims. There’s no stopping them now. Unless they see you jump."

"Unless they see Sherlock jump, you mean. Which is not going to happen today, obviously. So I suggest you call your gunmen off."

"Why should I?" Moriarty said, grinning up at him. "This is more fun, now I come to think of it." He started to walk away, as if he found Mycroft's very existence too tedious to notice, but the flexible voice kept on: "If I framed you for Sherlock's murder, you'd just run away and hide somewhere forever, and you might even manage it. But If I frame him for _your_ murder, he'll stay and try and clear his name, and just bring his friends down with him. I mean, Dr Watson's a fugitive and DI Lestrade's in trouble already, and we've barely started."

_He's taken the bait. Now I just have to sham reluctance. Point out the flaws in the plan._

"Even if all this came to trial, Sherlock might get off." 

"Oh, I'll enjoy watching Mr Crayhill or whoever it is trying to find a defence for him," Moriarty replied, "but I have a very _persuasive_ way with juries. And then imagine Sherlock sitting in a prison with a thousand angry criminals for the rest of his life. Reading the headlines about himself whenever the papers need some extra space to fill." He paused and then shouted: "The fraudulent, fratricidal Freak!"

"Are you finished?" Mycroft asked. Moriarty walked back towards him again, as if he couldn't bear to be still.

"No, but you are," he said. "You can arrest me and torture me again; you can do anything you like with me; but nothing’s gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. Dr Watson, Mrs Hudson, DI Lestrade will die, unless ..."

"Unless I complete your story, by killing myself, and allowing you to frame my brother."

"The brothers Grimm. I love a good fairytale."

"My life and my brother's disgrace against the lives of three rather...ordinary people," Mycroft said, and if he didn't sound quite normal, how would Moriarty know what was normal anyhow? "Not much of a choice is it, really?"

"If you allow John Watson or Mrs Hudson to die, how long do you think Sherlock will let _you_ live?" Moriarty said. "There's no way out for you, Mycroft. You're dead at Sherlock's hands whatever happens."

"Very well," Mycroft said, straightening himself, and stepping onto the parapet. And then he turned to face Moriarty, praying he wouldn't slip, and called out: "Contact your gunmen and tell them it's me jumping rather than Sherlock. I don't want any mistakes made."

Moriarty's eyes flicked, and there was a tiny movement of his hand towards his pocket, and suddenly Mycroft _knew_. He smiled at Moriarty, and stepped down hastily. Time to invade Moriarty's personal space now, try and imitate Sherlock's style.

"There's some kind of recall code, isn't there, to call off your killers?" he said smugly, advancing on Moriarty, till he was so close he could see the laugh lines on that sleek, hateful face. "Nobody has to die, because I will _make_ you stop the order."

"You think you can do that, do you, Mycroft? All your little games to get the key code and you still think you can make me do a thing I don’t want to?"

"You've given me a weapon I didn't have then," Mycroft said, and he narrowed his eyes, the way Sherlock did at his harshest. "The sharpest weapon of them all. I have bent the rules to get information from you, but I'll hand you over to a man who doesn't understand what those rules mean. Sherlock's just been playing games with you up to now, but you've gone too far. You've threatened his only three friends. I will give him to you and there is nothing he will not do to you to get that recall code." He had Moriarty's full attention now; the man was staring at him with unwavering fascination. _Time to wipe that smile off your face, Mr Moriarty_.  

"Because there was one thing I didn't tell you about my brother," Mycroft went on. "He is prepared to do what ordinary people won’t do. What even I won't do. I'm no angel, but he would head straight for hell if it'd stop you. He will work out how to break you, because he _is_ you."

Moriarty looked down, blinking, as if he had the sun in his eyes. Or as if he'd seen something that he recognised. And then he smiled beatifically up at Mycroft.

"Oh, you're right," he said. "You've got it at last. Your brother and I are made for one another. Thank you, thank you for recognising that." Suddenly there seemed to be tears in his eyes, as he reached out his hand: "Mycroft Holmes."

Mycroft took his hand, almost without thinking, trying to read a message from the confident grip, even as he was conscious of his own sweaty palm. What was happening? Was this all just the start of another round of Moriarty's infernal games?

"While I'm alive," Moriarty said, shaking his head and blinking again, "Sherlock and his friends are safe. There's still a way out. Pity about what's going to happen next."

Moriarty's mouth gaped, as if in shock, and his left hand came out of his pocket. Mycroft instinctively stepped back, as the barrel of Moriarty's gun swept not towards him, but into the hole of Moriarty's own mouth...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty's lying dead at Barts. Is Mycroft about to join him?

The first thing Mycroft remembered after the shot was being on his knees, deafened and shaking and vomiting out his coffee. Slowly, he forced his trembling legs upright. He stood staring out across the London rooftops for a moment, focusing on the dome of St Pauls. Trying to calm his breathing, before he turned to look at what he knew was behind him. The body of James Moriarty, with the drying blood darkening on his expensive suit. How had he let him do that? How had he been so slow? Sherlock would have spotted that trick, kept Moriarty alive.

He had to be sure that _he_ was dead, Mycroft decided. He picked up Moriarty's left arm, curiously heavy, and felt for a pulse. _Either you're dead or my watch has stopped_ , he told himself slightly hysterically after a few seconds. It was over then.  The most dangerous criminal mind he'd ever met had stopped its workings. Maybe he should ask Barts to dissect what remained of the brain; see if they could track down some flaw in it that had made Moriarty what he was.

It was only when he was halfway towards the staircase down that he stopped, realised how his subconscious was betraying him. Telling him to take the easy way down. The slow way.

 _Why not?_ There was no-one who could have overheard them, who could know what Moriarty had told him about the gunmen. He could pretend he had no idea about that part of the man's plan. Hurry down to wherever Sherlock was lurking, inform him simply that Moriarty had killed himself. Perhaps even get his help to forge a suicide note for Rich Brook that would exonerate both of them.  It wasn't his fault if there were enemies of Sherlock still out there, targeting the few friends he had. He wasn't the one pulling the trigger.

 _No_ , he told himself. What was it he'd said to Moriarty? That the lives of three ordinary people did not matter against his. But you could not call Mrs Hudson and Dr Watson ordinary. Let alone Greg Lestrade. He had to carry on with this, pray to gods he barely believed in that the gunmen would mistake him for his brother. From a distance, in Sherlock's own coat, perhaps they wouldn't spot the difference?

Even if they did, it was still likely that Moriarty's men simply wouldn't care: wasn't one dead Holmes as good as another? He wasn't brave, but this wouldn't take bravery for long. One second to step off, that was all. He could do it. He would do it, in a moment.

He walked over to the parapet, stiffly, balled his hands into fists, made himself look down, to check he was standing in the right spot. Sure enough, there was a lorry parked in the marked outline. A very solid looking lorry. But Sherlock said it was all planned. His phone started to vibrate and he pulled it out. No message though, and the call promptly stopped, only to start again a few seconds later. Some kind of warning. Was the lorry not ready? Had Sherlock seen something? He looked down, scanning the ground , and then suddenly he saw something. A taxi drawing up, and a figure getting out of it. Even at this distance, it was oddly familiar; you could always recognise Dr Watson's way of breaking into a jog. Mycroft hit the speed-dial button without thinking about it, and the figure raised its phone.

"Hello."

"John, I need to talk to you."

"Piss off, Mycroft."  John was still heading towards Barts. If he went in – if he found Sherlock, if the gunman saw them together – that would be the end of both of them.

"Sherlock's in danger," he blurted out.

"Thanks to you."  John's voice was grim now.

"Turn around, please. Walk back the way you came. Sherlock's life may depend on it."

 "God. OK. Where do you need me to go?" John was walking back across the road now. Could he get him to leave the vicinity entirely? No, it would take too long. And every minute here made it more likely that the gunman would somehow spot Sherlock. Mycroft was going to have to jump with John watching, and he couldn't hope to fool him. Or could he?

"Stop there. Then look up on the roof," he ordered.

He could see the small figure turn and then "Oh God" came shakily over the phone. Another breath and then John's voice rang out harshly:

"You bastard. You complete and utter bastard, Mycroft. I thought you _were_ Sherlock for a moment."

Inspiration flooded through Mycroft.

"I am," he said. "In everything that matters, I am."

"What do you mean?"

"I created Sherlock Holmes. The consulting detective, the only one of his kind. My brother has wonderful cheekbones and he's an accomplished actor. Mentally, however, he is hardly my equal. It wasn't Action Men or Smurfs that were his childish grievance, Dr Watson. It was that he couldn't live up to me. So I found a way for him to be able to do so. To become a hero."

 "What?"

"The newspaper article is true. I set up crimes so he could solve them. I invented Moriarty for Sherlock to defeat."

"Why are you saying this?"

"Because it must stop. I...I can't do this any more, break any more rules. Sherlock is a fake, and I can't keep hiding that, even if he can. You have to tell everyone, John, you have to tell Sherlock, that this is over."

Even from fifty feet away, he could _feel_ John glaring up at him, and his voice was harsh:

"Shut up, Mycroft, you lying bastard, you don't know what you're talking about. The first time I met Sherlock, _the very first time_ , he knew all about my sister."

"Harriet Watson, alcoholic and lesbian. The files I had on you were very extensive, Dr Watson, as you must have realised the first time _we_ met. Nobody could have been as clever as Sherlock pretended to be. Unless they were suitably primed beforehand. I told you that Sherlock wanted to be a pirate when he was young. I didn't mention that I wanted to be a magician."

"God knows you play enough tricks on people," John replied. "But I've had enough of listening to you. So you can just stop it. I'm going to find Sherlock." He started to walk towards the entrance, towards Sherlock and death and defeat...

"Stay where you are!" Mycroft snapped. "Don't move. _Please_ , John." Sherlock had told him that the sightlines were key. As long as nobody was standing right beside the lorry the illusion would work. Something in his voice must have registered, because John stopped, raising his hand.

"All right, Mycroft, I'll give you one minute."

 "You have to tell people," Mycroft said. "About what's going to happen. I meant to leave a note but I couldn't think what to write. The words wouldn't come this time." He could let the fear and misery he felt into his voice now; he didn't have to be an iceman any more. He could sound like a man who was about to throw himself off a building.

 "Leave a note?" John said incredulously.

"Isn't that the normal procedure for these things? To avoid any confusion."

"Don't be a silly bugger, Mycroft." And then something changed in John's voice, and he added slowly: "Whatever you've done, it doesn't have to end like this. It really, really doesn't."

Mycroft's throat was closing up, choking him, and to his embarrassment he felt tears on his cheeks.

"Goodbye, John. Keep your eyes fixed on me, please. I want you as a witness, so that Sherlock knows the truth."

"Don't. Just don't. Please, Mycroft, it won't solve anything. Stay alive for me, please." John's tone was urgent now, the voice of a doctor who'd forced so many soldiers to live against their will.

"I'm sorry, John. Tell him that, please. He'll understand." He dropped the phone off the roof, and raised his arms, the heavy coat pulling against them. And then he dived forward.

***

Someone was screaming and perhaps it was him.  Sherlock had told him to protect his head and try and land on his feet, but his arms were flailing and he had no time. He was about to do the worst belly-flop ever. As he hit the lorry's load – some kind of clothes, something soft at least – it gave way and he was still falling. Then there was a crack and an agonising pain shot up his right leg. He shoved his arm in his mouth to muffle his screams, and he was _still_ falling. No, it was just the lorry driving away. He lay with his teeth in the sleeve of Sherlock's coat and his eyes closed, and waited to find out if he was dead or not.

Someone was grabbing his shoulder, shaking him, and when he opened his eyes and looked up a stranger was starring down at him. A small man with big muscles and an expression of weary friendliness.

"Come on, mate, you need to move," he said. "Gotta get the lorry back by nine." His arms came under Mycroft's armpits and he lifted his limp body up. "Steps here, just take it slowly."

Mycroft's left foot felt clumsily for a step, as the man eased him down. And then his right foot went down and his world exploded into pain again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's officially dead. Reactions to this fact vary.

It hurt to move. It hurt to breathe. He should just lie here, wherever he was, and never stir again. But someone was wiping his sweaty forehead with a cool cloth, and an anxious female voice kept on repeating: "Mr Holmes...can you hear me? Mr Holmes?"

With an effort, he forced his eyes open to meet a kind, worried gaze. He knew the woman who was now carefully offering him a cup of water, her hands sure and steady. _Used to caring for people, that's not what's she nervous about_. Once he could get his fuzzy brain beyond the relief to his dried-out throat, he started it on a slow crawl through the files of his memory. Sherlock on Christmas day...standing beside a small figure in a hideous red jumper and a lab coat. The little woman at the morgue...Mary...Maggie...

"Molly," he croaked, and the woman smiled the tentative smile of someone who wasn't used to being remembered.

"You're OK, Mr Holmes," she said. "Well, I mean, you're not, because you've smashed up your ankle, and bruised yourself badly, and...and you really need  surgery, but we can't give it to you here. But you are alive, which I guess is mostly OK."

He was not lying on a mortuary slab, which suggested that he was indeed alive. Instead, a cautious glance around suggested he was on a hospital trolley in somebody's office. Judging by the cat calendar on the wall, probably Molly's. She was speaking again now, in the bright voice she probably kept for emergencies.

"Anthea said that you'd have plans for a situation like this."

A taller figure came to stand behind Molly.

"What do you need me to do, sir?" Anthea asked, staring down at him. There was a coldness in her voice that probably only he heard. He hadn't come to her for help, but then he hadn't known till too late he was going to need it. Focus on the current situation, he told himself, and leave apologies for later.

"Charing Cross branch of CoCo Storage," he said, forcing his aching mouth to articulate clearly. "There's a safety deposit box with a passport and credit cards in the name of Mikkel Sigersen,"

"Service issue?"

"No. Personal use. Swipecard in the usual location, identification is via PIN number 300663." She'd work out eventually the reason for that PIN, but that didn't matter. "I'll also need..." He came to a stop. What he _needed_ was a replacement for his body, but not even Anthea could provide that surely? Well not the right sort, anyhow. There was already a replacement body for him, wasn't there? Or was he getting confused?

"Just try and rest," Molly said and looked worriedly at Anthea.

"Where are you relocating?" Anthea asked calmly.

"New York," he said.

"I'll book a flight. For this afternoon." She turned to Molly. "Can he travel? With enough painkillers and a wheel-chair?"

"I'm not a doctor," Molly said hastily. "There could be internal injuries. I've seen people die from falling off a bed, never mind a tall building."

So much for her earlier reassurances, Mycroft thought, but he suspected if he was dying he'd have noticed it by now.

"I'll take the risk," he said. "If you could arrange for someone to meet me in New York, Anthea. Someone _reliable_?"

His voice sounded all wrong, but Anthea just nodded, and hurried away.

"She...it was OK telling her about things, wasn't it?" Molly asked nervously once she was gone. She looked like a particularly guilty schoolgirl. "It was just she worked it out and I didn't know what else to do."

"Worked what out?" He hoped it was just the painkillers that were slowing down his mind so appallingly.

"That you weren't dead. They had to get her to identify you because Sherlock was missing and John had been arrested. But when she looked at the body she noticed the shoes weren't yours."

Only Anthea would think to look at the shoes of her boss's mangled corpse, Mycroft thought smugly. And as soon as she'd spotted the anomaly, she'd have looked for the person in Barts obviously concealing something. It wouldn't have taken much to make Molly confess, he suspected, and Anthea could be very _persuasive_.

"It doesn't matter, my dear," he breathed, and Molly gave a tentative smile. "Could you give me some more water, please?"

A few sips more, as he tried to work out what was next on his to-do list. He had had no idea playing dead was such hard work. But there was something still missing. No, _someone_.

"Sherlock?" he asked, opening his eyes, which had somehow fallen shut.

"Mycroft," said a familiar voice from the doorway. "Molly, do you mind if I have a word with my brother? Don't touch the body on the second slab, by the way, it's your ex-boyfriend."

Molly scuttled out, and Sherlock sauntered over to look down at Mycroft, a faint smile on his pale, beautiful face.

"I've just been clearing things up on the roof," he said. "I should have known you'd want to dispose of Moriarty."

"I didn't..." Mycroft began, and gave up the sentence. It was too complicated to explain, and surely Sherlock would know what had happened?

"You didn't pull the trigger? Of course not. You never do your own dirty work, do you, Mycroft? But the man's dead, nevertheless."  He paused and then added: "I can dispose of his body, if you need me to. I have at least five possibilities for that, and I think Molly's done enough corpse-swapping for today."

"The Service will need a sight of Moriarty," he murmured. "Tell Anthea to take him down to the scalphunters at Brixton. They'll be pleased enough about her disposing of him that she won't suffer for her connections to me."

"Any other last wishes?" Sherlock's voice was sardonic now.

"No. The key code doesn't exist: Moriarty fooled us about that."

"I suspected as much," Sherlock replied, and Mycroft's mind was too blurry to tell if he was lying or not. "No key code, no Moriarty, officially no you. The world is suddenly a much safer place."

Was everyone safe, though? Mycroft didn't dare ask about Greg – he didn't want to reveal his feelings to Sherlock even now – but he could check on one of Moriarty's targets.

"Is John OK?" he asked, and there was a momentary warmth to Sherlock's answering smile.

"I take it Moriarty threatened him? People always do want to menace John. It's...curious."  The smile vanished, and Sherlock's voice became harsh. "John watched you die, and promptly got knocked over in a traffic accident. He then got arrested for last night's assault on a police officer. But he'll be fine.  He's indestructible, you must have realised that."

Sherlock had his own vulnerabilities as well. Not the time to explore them. Now was the time to...to...

"You'd better rest," said Sherlock. "You damaged yourself quite badly in the fall. I'll be in contact." He turned to walk away.

"I don't know where–"

Sherlock looked round, his mouth quirking. "I'll find you, Mycroft. Don't worry about that." Then he was gone, and Mycroft closed his eyes again and waited for the pain die down.

***

Doctors were the same the world over, Mycroft decided, three months later, as he lay in a private room in the New York-Presbyterian Hospital. In fifteen minutes, a cheery orthopedic surgeon was going to arrive to discuss the results of his latest operation. For now it was more painkillers and determined attempts at distracting his mind from the mess of his own body. He even looked a mess, he thought, gloomily. When he stared in the mirror, "Wilson Hargreave" stared back: red hair, a scruffy beard, and a distinctly tasteless T-shirt.

He opened his laptop carefully onto his knees: he'd missed yesterday's usual check of UK headlines, and he was feeling uneasy about that. He wasn't altogether surprised to find another article in the _Daily Express_ about Sherlock; he was clearly their new obsession, an appropriate successor to Princess Diana and Madeleine McCann. Though how could anyone think up "THE SPY WHO SHOVED ME" as a headline?

 He scanned the story rapidly. It was one of the _Express_ ' usual pro-Sherlock stories: Mycroft Holmes' death had been suicide, not murder. Maddened by Sherlock's success, he had tried to undermine his own brother by spreading lies about him. But this time there was a neat new twist. Traces of Sherlock's blood had been found on the roof at Barts. "Sources close to the police" were suggesting that Mycroft Holmes might have attacked his brother and then killed himself when the assault failed. There was the old quote from Dr Watson about Mycroft saying that the phone conversation was his suicide note. And a newer plea from him. "Sherlock, wherever you are, please come home. People need to know what really happened that morning."

Someone had doubtless been swapping DNA samples again. Maybe not Sherlock himself; he'd been in Tibet, the last Mycroft had heard from him. Not likely that any of Moriarty's network were based _there_ , Mycroft thought sardonically. But he could hardly come back from the dead himself till Sherlock was ready to co-operate. He couldn't risk fouling up his brother's plans again.

Ten minutes till the consultation. He checked his e-mail next. A carefully rerouted message from Anthea and an attachment on it. When he read the message it simply said: "Forwarded by SP from gravecam. This one contains no bodily fluids."

Mycroft sighed. It had seemed a useful precaution to monitor his own tombstone, and sure enough, a surprising number of his old enemies had come out of the woodwork to pay their respects. He just hadn't expected that so many of them would want, literally, to piss on his grave.

But this sounded different. He wondered who was voluntarily choosing to associate themselves with a dead and disgraced man. He started to run the grainy video and there was the solid figure of DI Lestrade walking into the country graveyard where Mycroft Holmes' body supposedly lay.

Lestrade – Greg – looked weary, the lines on his face more prominent than Mycroft remembered. And had his hair been so grey three months ago? He was dressed as scruffily as ever, and he held a bunch of roses awkwardly across his chest. He stood looking at the gravestone for a moment and then placed the flowers down on it.

 _A kind gesture_ , Mycroft thought, and was puzzled when Greg abruptly reached down and picked the bunch up again. And then his free hand scrubbed through his hair and he said:

"They look a bit stupid, don't they? Dunno flowers are really your thing, Mycroft."

Mycroft turned up the volume, straining to hear if Greg would say something more.

"Somebody told me the other day," Greg went on slowly, "that it helped sometimes, if someone died suddenly, to write a letter to them. To say the things you didn't have a chance to tell them when they were alive."

He stopped, and bent down, and put the flowers back on the grave, and then stood back up and shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Only the thing is, I'm pretty crap at writing letters. So maybe this'll have to do instead. Coz...coz there's a lot of things I never said to you, Mycroft. We worked together quite a bit, and I thought maybe we were friends. But I didn't really know you properly, and now it's too late."

He stopped for a moment, and Mycroft bit his lip and forced himself not to stop the clip. To hear Greg out, as he deserved to be heard. Not run away yet again.    




"A lot of people thought you were inhuman," Greg went on, and then his voice softened, "but I knew right from the start that you were a great man. And a good one, underneath it all, I reckon, whatever mistakes you may have made. And...and I don't know exactly why you did what you did, but I just wish I could have been there to help you out when you needed it. Coz maybe if you hadn't felt so alone – if you'd had someone there who cared about you – you wouldn't have decided to end it all. So I wanted to say sorry about that, Mycroft."

Greg's head went down for a moment, and when he raised it again, Mycroft wondered if he was crying. Or was that simply his own imagination? Greg's hand was reaching out now, to brush against the black marble of the headstone, and then he suddenly slammed his hand against it and roared:

"Fuck it! You can't, you can't do this, Mycroft. We need you back, we all do. John, and Sherlock and me, and the whole bloody country. So just...wherever you are, tell them there's been a mistake with the paperwork. Tell them you're not officially dead. Come back and sort things out, please, because no-one else can. Got that?"

He put his hand to his face and turned and stomped away. Mycroft watched as the clip came to a stop, the last frame showing Greg's retreating back disappearing towards the gate. He closed the e-mail with shaking hands, wondering if he could ever put right the harm he had done.

***

When Mycroft dreamt of jumping off the roof _that_ night, it was Greg Lestrade's strong arms that broke his fall. But he didn't fool himself it was anything more than a dream.


End file.
